I discovered Outdoorsy.com, the RV equivalent to Airbnb (another favorite and well used website of mine) and have met many kindred spirits. People who want to travel with spontaneity, comfort, and safety.

Outdoorsy makes all the arrangements including insurance. We'll meet and you can take a look and take a drive to see if RT fits your needs.

See below for a checklist of what I provide and what you need to pack.

From Sacred Travel article (below)

I feel free and happy to be alive when I’m traveling long distances alone in my 2000 Road Trek camper van, nicknamed RT.

I’m reluctant to tell people of my solo cross country camping trips because I get two universal, but mistaken reactions. The first is one of horror at the thought I would travel cross country by myself. The other reaction is just the opposite, one of assurance that I would have a great time: “Really? How exciting!”

Neither perception even comes close to capturing my motivation for this type of travel.

Each time, my trip has been a two-week meditation, accompanied by all the unexpected pleasures, sadnesses, fears, and irritations that show up in an extended state of reflection. More accurately called sacred travel, I am with myself and by myself, feasting on the sights and sounds of nature, delving into the depths of myself, and facing the fears only I know that I have. Each time, surprising insights appear.

From Me and my RT (see below, a chapter in my book, ONWARD)

Sitting cross-legged on the wide, upholstered, and armless back seat, I am settling down for the night. With the windows of the van partially open, I feel the cool, western air gliding across my arms and teasing my nose to open and smell its freshness. I finish my simple dinner of frozen vegetables cooked in chicken broth and sprinkled with parmesan cheese. I’m ready to take a sip from the pale, but vivid orange ceramic mug cupped between my two hands. With my eyes still closed, I taste the marvelous fruit-flavored tea I purchased a half-dozen days ago when I left Oregon, tracking the path of its heat tingling my mouth and sliding down my throat. My chest opens and expands as it receives the welcomed warmth. My breathing becomes slower, each inhale and exhale slightly longer than the one before.

As my body sinks deeper I can feel the contours of my back, hips, and thighs making contact with the chair I’m sitting on. Letting the chair do its job to support me, my muscles release, and I let go even more. The familiar coconut aroma makes itself known, wafting from the small, scented candle that sits securely in a tiny glass holder in the fingers of the unused stovetop, unable to move and cause any danger from its tiny fragrant flame.

I’m cloistered in the interior white-walled shell of my RT, curtains pulled to cover the windows, closely surrounded by maple-colored overhead and baseboard compartments—a miniature kitchen to my left and a floor to ceiling closet behind my back. Three steps to the rear, in the back of the van, is a double-sized bed. One side of the bed is holding bags and suitcases filled with the essentials I took to Washington State for my six-week stay there; the other half is clear and ready for me to have a good night’s sleep. I look up through the 3-window skylight and see trillions of stars in the dark blue, indigo sky.

It doesn’t get any better than this—I am by myself, with myself, inside my RT.